


Ragamuffin

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, WTF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-26 15:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9907871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Fíli and Kíli mess up, unfortunately for Lindir...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“It was _my_ idea,” Kíli stresses, wrenching the staff towards him, but Fíli screws up his face like he’s never heard anything more absurd in his life and pulls it back his way.

“It was not! I said it first! And Bofur makes more sense!”

“He does not,” Kíli insists, not as fiercely as he means to, because all his energy is currently invested in trying to wrestle the staff out of his brother’s firm grip. The two of them have been fighting over it since they first snuck it out of Gandalf’s quarters, because, Kíli explains again, “Nori’s pranked us more; it makes more sense to prank him first!”

“But he’ll be mad—Bofur’ll be more understanding; he’s got a better sense of humour—”

“Nori has a sense of humour!”

Fíli looks about to deny it, but before he can, an elf turns the corner. Neither twin turns to look at him, but Kíli can tell from his peripherals by the sheer height that it’s not a dwarf or Bilbo. The newcomer says in a nervous, flighty voice, “What are you two doing? Please, there is no fighting permitted within Imladris’ borders—”

But Kíli doesn’t care and highly suspects Fíli doesn’t either, and he says loudly right over the elf, “Nori’s quarters are closer!”

The elf makes a distressed noise, but Fíli snaps right back, “They’re staying in the same room, you doofus!”

“Sirs, please—”

“It’ll be funnier on Nori!”

“It’ll be funnier on Bofur!”

Kíli throws all his strength into a final move, jerking the staff almost violently out of Fíli’s grip, and the twisted branches at the top make a sudden cracking sound—before Kíli knows what’s happening, it erupts in a roar of blinding light and a gust of wind that knocks him right over—he hits the floor with a wail of shock and drops the staff to the floor. For a split second, he’s completely disoriented and can’t see a thing, and then his ears are ringing and the world’s slowly coming back into focus.

His first instinct is to shout, “Fíli?” and to scramble over to check if his brother’s alright. 

A strong pair of hands grips him right back, clutching onto his arms, and Fíli checks, “Are you okay?”

“I think so...” He glances at the staff, now lying innocently next to them, and has a spark of uncharacteristic doubt as to whether stealing it was a good idea, no matter who they use it on.

It isn’t until they’ve both climbed back to their feet, checked each other for damage, and collected the staff again before Kíli thinks to look for the elf.

The elf must’ve dove for cover faster than they could’ve; the hallway’s clear, except for a few meters away, where a pile of blue fabric is piled on the floor. A fluffy brown kitten sits in the middle of it—Kíli doesn’t remember seeing either before, but then, he was paying more attention to the staff then. 

Fíli makes a hushed noise, then suggests with reverent awe, “Kíli... what if we prank _Gandalf_?”

Gandalf has a decent sense of humour, but nowhere near as much as Bofur or Nori. Kíli still answers instantly, “That’s brilliant!”

Looking supremely pleased with himself, Fíli relinquishes his grip of the staff, leaving it in Kíli’s capable hands, and they bother scamper back the way they came.

* * *

It’s most unusual.

For more than a century, Elrond has simply arrived at his office to find Lindir already there, neatly dressed and brightly ready for whatever the morning might bring, always eager to help Elrond through the day. There have been times where Elrond’s traveled, but _Lindir_ has never traveled, nor has he missed a single day for any reason, nor has he ever been so much as a minute late. It felt quite odd for Elrond to arrive at his office and find it empty, and that oddity only grew with every passing moment. He tried to focus on his work nonetheless—Lindir is, after all, more than entitled to a day off—but the constant wonderment proved quite counterproductive to his work.

Now, even as Elrond drifts about the corridors of his home, hoping to come across his wayward assistant, he knows it’s irrational. They do, after all, have a number of guests, all of which have proven to be a strain to Lindir’s frail nerves. It would be a dreadful shame if Gandalf’s Dwarven friends pushed him to a nervous breakdown, though Elrond hopes that, if that were the case, Lindir would come to Imladris’ most accomplished healer: Elrond. He’s thus far had no such message.

He can’t quite bring himself to check in on Lindir’s quarters—it would seem far too inappropriate—so instead he heads for where the guests are staying. He’s only halfway there when he spots Erestor down the hall, staring down between his feet.

When Elrond’s reached him, it becomes apparent why: there’s a fuzzy little ball of chocolate fur sitting there, batting frantically at the skirt of Erestor’s robes. Erestor regards it with a curious expression, and the kitten opens its tiny mouth for a baleful meow.

“I was not aware there had been a new litter,” Elrond muses, though in truth, his residents are hardly obligated to report such things to him. Erestor glances at him, and the cat whips its head around, so fast that it accidentally knocks itself over. The poor thing paws frantically at the air and manages to right itself amidst the flailing limbs, though it still looks unsteady—quite young indeed. Elrond can’t help a small smile. While his peoples’ youth may stretch for centuries, it’s a sad reality that their pets are only truly _young_ for a few short months. Once the kitten has its footing, it aborts the attempt to climb Erestor and instead stretches out its front paws, its head ducking onto them. It’s a most unusual pose for a cat, and, if anything, looks like the little creature is trying to _bow_.

Erestor says for him, “It is a most unusual kitten, my lord. And for the record, I was not aware of any litters, either. I have been trying to determine if it is old enough to wander about like this; I cannot help but think it should still be under someone’s watch.”

“Indeed,” Elrond agrees, “Although I can’t imagine who in my home would allow something so delicate to wander before its time.”

Erestor nods and concedes, “It is possible it is simply abnormally small for its species, but I will still see if I can find who its parents stay with.” He moves as if to bend down and scoop it up, but the kitten rises just then and pads over to Elrond instead, sitting dutifully beside him. Its tail flicks, its ears lifting, its impossibly wide eyes craning up at him. Elrond can’t stop himself from bending down to pet one curled finger down its tiny back. It spasms shortly, perhaps from surprise, then settles, and Elrond repeats the movement, earning a chiming purr.

“It likes you,” Erestor decides, which gives Elrond a silly splotch of pride. After a minute or two of mindless petting, he adds, “...Perhaps you would be willing to care for it until I am able to locate its parents?”

In truth, Elrond has much to do, especially regarding the white council, not to mention his absent assistant, but a kitten shouldn’t impede that too much, and he knows Erestor would only suggest it if he himself felt too busy for the task. Perhaps it’s simply that the cat seems to behave better for Elrond, and besides, Erestor has often joked that he has his own pet, or at least a companion he feels exhaustingly responsible for, in Glorfindel. Elrond agrees, “Very well,” and the kitten makes a mewling noise that has him chuckling. It’s a shame that Arwen isn’t home; she would adore such a creature. 

Because the kitten’s legs are so very tiny and likely won’t be able to keep up all the way back to his office, Elrond bends to scoop the it gently into his arms. It settles obediently in and continues to purr. When he’s straightened up with his adorable burden, Elrond asks, “By the way, have you seen Lindir today? He had yet to arrive at my office when I left.”

The kitten makes a sudden wail of distress, and Elrond quickly resuming petting it, though it still looks upset—he makes a mental note to find it food and water.

Erestor takes no notice and replies, “Under normal circumstances, I would say that is quite unlike him, at least to take leave without saying or even requesting permission. But I did see him headed to our guests’ chambers this morning, and I imagine he is simply still preoccupied with them. They are... quite a handful, my lord.”

Elrond nods, supposing, “I believe I did tell him that their comfort would be his highest priority.” The cat makes a cute squeaking noise again, so Elrond coos softly at it, and it settles again, snuggling into the crook of his arm. Erestor nods as if to leave, but Elrond says first, “Would you please have the kitchen send saucers of milk and the appropriate food to my quarters?”

Erestor says, “Of course, my lord,” bows his head, and heads off.

The kitten nuzzles into Elrond’s hand, and he strokes it all the way to his office.

* * *

He wasn’t going to do it. He really wasn’t going to stick his head in a giant bowl and... and _lick_ milk off the floor like an animal. But his throat seems far more vulnerable than it used to be—this whole body is vulnerable, mortal—and he’s terribly thirsty. So he gives in when Elrond gently pats his bottom and scoots him towards the dish. He’s sure his cheeks are flushed, it’s just that there’s now a mass of fur to hide it.

As far as he can tell, most of his body is covered in fur, because he’s been turned into some sort of tiny animal with whiskers on the end of its face and stubby little paws that have no dexterity. It’s a most horrifying experience. 

But Elrond pets him while he laps up the milk, and that makes it...

No, that makes it even more horrifying. His boss, his lord, his beloved Elrond is _petting_ him, and Lindir’s shameful enough to enjoy it. Every time Elrond’s massive palm slides down the back of his neck, long fingers curling in to rub his sides, Lindir emits another whine that comes out as a purr. It feels wondrously _good_ ; Elrond is so kind, so gentle, just as Lindir’s always known him to be, but now Lindir actually has _those hands_ all over him, and he could just fade from the embarrassment.

On the other hand, he wouldn’t dare fade in Elrond’s presence, and he finds himself mewling sadly when Elrond finally gets up and leaves him. Even though Elrond clearly has no idea that the little furball on his office floor is in fact his loyal assistance, he speaks to Lindir anyway, assuring, “I will only be right here, little one. No one is going to abandon you again.”

Lindir doesn’t care about just anyone. He had tried desperately to get Erestor’s attention when first given the opportunity—Erestor is very wise and well respected and could surely have spoken to one of the visiting wizards about curing him. But Erestor didn’t understand him, and then Elrond came along, and Elrond is the only one Lindir truly wishes to attach himself to.

But he tries not to, because he’s already ruined Elrond’s day by not showing up for work—a fact he feels tremendous guilt over—and he has no intention of distracting Elrond from more work. He sits by the dishes of milk and food instead, feeling quite awkward to be on all fours. He tries to be as quiet as he is still.

He does for as long as he can and thinks he’ll just sleep right here if he must; he’s being useless anyway. Yet sleep doesn’t come, and the more he watches Elrond write at his desk, the more Lindir longs to be _there_.

And Lindir’s will, it seems, has become as weak as the rest of him, because eventually, he picks himself up and plods over, moving thoroughly unsteadily on all four feat. The closer he gets, the more Elrond disappears behind his desk, until Lindir can’t see anything at all but the wood; he’s so _small_ , and the world looks so very different from the floor. He hopes he isn’t damaging that floor with his claws, though they feel quite tiny. He tries to be careful. He makes his way around the desk and reaches Elrond’s feet, which he brushes across in an attempt to just be _closer_. Elrond’s body is incredibly warm and seems to call to him like a beacon, even more than usual.

Elrond tsks, and the next thing Lindir knows, he’s being scooped up into the air. Elrond’s fingers are all around him, and Elrond lifts him so easily up, and then he’s being placed in Elrond’s lap, where he can’t help a mewl of delight. He whines right afterwards, wishing he could say how sorry he is about all this, but Elrond only looks down with a broad smile and scratches behind his ear again. Lindir’s purring before he realizes it, leaning into the touch and perking his ears, eyes falling closed. Perhaps this new existence isn’t so bad after all.

Then Elrond chuckles, “I am quite grateful I only require one hand to write. You are free to the other, my friend.” Lindir open his mouth to insist that Elrond not bother with him at all, but of course, the words don’t come out. His new lips can’t even form them.

Elrond gives him another affectionate scratch, then sets into broad strokes down his back, and Lindir guiltily settles down and enjoys them all. He rests his fuzzy cheek on Elrond’s thigh through the fabric, his tail draping over the other side. He’s daydreamed more than once about being in Elrond’s lap, but this is never how he pictured it happening. He remembers an old adage Estel picked up from visiting Men—‘beggars can’t be choosers.’

So Lindir tries to just be grateful for this strange moment the Valar have given him.

Even if he’s never able to return to his true form, and he’s robbed of his harp and the ability to be of any use to Elrond at all, at least, though he’ll only live a few short years, he may be able to spend some of that time right here.

* * *

Hobbits can be, at times, the most mischievous little creatures, but they aren’t nearly so difficult as dwarves. It’s with an exasperated sigh that Gandalf blows a careful gust of _will_ across the doorknob, and it twists for him without a sound, drawing in just as silently. It casts the hall’s pale moonlight into the grand bedroom. Careful to keep his rescued staff from clinking on the floor, Gandalf slips into the room.

He pads softly to the bed, pleased that his actions haven’t yet woken his host. Lord Elrond lies on his side, facing the grand veranda, eyes still peacefully closed and a sliver of starlight across his face. The blankets are pulled to his shoulder, and nestled squarely in the middle of them is a tiny bundle of fur, barely visible in the darkness. Gandalf doubts Elrond put such a small thing where it could so easily be disturbed, but doubtless, the willful kitten found its way there on its own, having its own heart to follow. 

Gandalf taps it gently on the top of its head with his staff, then turns to leave as that fur dissolves, and a young, naked elf forms in its place.

Gandalf’s gone and out the door before the transformation is finished, but he’s sure he’ll hear all about the aftermath in the morning.


End file.
